


The Tiger, the Dragon, and the Tree

by Hannibals_Jorts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Happy Ending, Holidays, Interior Decorating, Love, M/M, Sexual Tension, Soup, Tension, kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibals_Jorts/pseuds/Hannibals_Jorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at the beach house, Hannibal and Francis have been on the run for months and plan on hiding in the last place the authorities would look - Hannibal's house in Baltimore. The cops may have found his workroom, but they never found the basement...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiger, the Dragon, and the Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quente](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quente/gifts).



The house of the Chesapeake Ripper stood empty. Its windows were boarded up, and its stately columns and peaks trailed plastic ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape in the December wind. The rest of the houses along the darkened avenue were empty, their yards sporting 'For Sale’ signs. The draw of affluence had given way to the revulsion of infamy, as the residents vacated in short order.  

Two tall figures crouched in the park across the street, behind a decorative brick wall. Both moved with such care and silence that the bare branches of the shrubs remained still as they passed. Both had ragged beards and shaggy, unkempt hair. 

“Isn’t this your house?” one of the pair asked. His voice was a hushed baritone that unconsciously omitted plosives. The speaker wore a dark sweater, black tactical pants, and boots, all splattered with the grays and browns of drying mud. 

“It is indeed,” the other man replied, his cultured speech at odds with his worn, tattered tracksuit and dirty face.

“Is it safe?”

“Of course. The police have been throughout and are done with it. They found my workroom, but they never found the basement.” Hannibal drew a deep breath.  _Strange, to read those files and watch all the dreadful news stories with my own things displayed for the world to gawk at._

Francis bit his lip, fretting. “Won’t they know if we’re inside?”

Hannibal’s head shook once. His overgrown hair covered one eye. “We’ll leave up the tape, cover the windows from the inside so there’s no sign we’re here. I had generators in the basement to keep my power usage undetected…” His amber eyes jumped to the ice-blue ones of his companion, and crinkled in amusement. “I’m sure you can imagine why.”

Francis chuckled, dropping his face and raising a gloved hand to his mouth. His black beard did little to conceal the scar on his upper lip.

_He seems as shy as a schoolgirl when he does that. How fortunate I am- on the run with someone I actually prefer to spend time with. I barely even think of Will anymore..._

Hannibal leaned back from the wall, balancing on his haunches. He turned to Francis, his smudged face cheerful despite their circumstances. “You’ve been in my home before, but you didn't have my permission. Would you care to enter with me now, as a guest?”

The ice-blue eyes blinked. “Yes… I’d like that.”

Hannibal smiled.

_He never says please… but he almost did, that time._

 

Despite the risk, they entered through the front door. Hannibal timed their movements to coincide with a cloud passing across the half moon. With a few deft flicks, Francis cut enough crime scene tape to let them pass as Hannibal unlocked the door. Two pairs of broad shoulders disappeared into the black doorway, and the tape was rehung as the door pressed gently shut, leaving no sign of their entrance.

Once inside, a change came over the men. The furtive skittishness adopted from long nights in hiding dropped away. Their shoulders squared from hunches, their heads lifted. Francis smoothed his hair back from his face, his bearing as regal as that of an exiled king.

Hannibal observed the change in their shadows, smiling. 

_We’ve spent weeks on the run, hiding behind dumpsters and in gas station bathrooms. We’ve seen each other naked more times than I could count, and yet now he is in my house, my domain. Two predators in the same cave… we must be cautious and respectful of each other’s space. Things will be different, now that we are in the house._

Dirt and trash covered the tile floor, the antique furniture was smashed and overturned. Broken windows let in blue shafts of moonlight, turning the interior to a chaos of shadows.

Hannibal lifted a hand. “Welcome. Let me show you around.”

Although the dining room was in shambles, Hannibal was pleased to find his decorative moss installations still alive and well on the walls. His herb garden had managed to survive, though only just.

_The silverware, crockery, and dining services are all gone… probably sold on Ebay again, or hoarded away in closets to present to incredulous guests… ‘Look, this tea saucer is from Hannibal Lecter’s house!’ What a strange feeling, to know I am passing on heirlooms when I am still alive. How strange too, the things they prize... an 18th-century set of serving dishes shatters on my floor and is ground beneath their boots, while my pen, iPad and socks fetch thousands of dollars at auction._

The kitchen was a disaster, but he didn’t mind. The water still ran, and although most of his finest cooking implements had been taken as evidence (and again, sold on Ebay), he could get more. He didn’t even touch the refrigerator, knowing full well that whatever was in it would be so much fermented sludge.

The office fared little better, and had been stripped to nothing. His sketches, art, and personal effects were gone. Happily his books survived untouched, despite the damp air from broken windows. The ruined furniture lying about looked like the aftermath of a battle between chairs and tables.

His bedrooms had fared somewhat better. The beds, sheets, mattresses and other furnishings were intact, if in disarray and need of laundering.

“No one’s been in here since the… authorities searched it,” Francis observed. He stood by the bedroom door, awkward and hesitant to invade the space as Hannibal moved about in the room.

_The mirrors are all broken, and no shards left are large enough to show his reflection. I’ll be sure to clear those up first, to spare him. Although he’s beautiful, he’ll never believe it, and seeing his reflection can bring- the Other._

“So it would seem.” Hannibal lifted a Japanese screen of black lacquered wood. The unmistakable outline of a fist had smashed through it. _Perhaps Will came by after all._  He smiled at his own joke. “You are welcome to come in, although your bedroom is across the hall.”

Francis started. “It is?”

“Of course. We are both of us solitary by nature, despite our occasionally wanting… company. I will respect your privacy so long as you respect mine.”

_Of course we will sleep together some nights, of course we will wake up together... but there is something special in having a visitor in the night. The creak of the opening door, soft steps, silence as he listens for signs I am awake..._

Francis watched him, the blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Okay.”

Hannibal walked past him and into the hall, motioning toward an open door. “The restroom is through there. We have water, but it will be cold until we can get the generators working. And of course we will be missing some supplies." He paused and turned to Francis, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Come, let us put our home to rights. Together.”

“In time for Christmas?” The voice was hopeful.

Hannibal’s amber eyes crinkled. “Of course, Francis. This is your home now, too.”

 

In the workroom, a wine rack swung out and revealed blank wall- actually a thin sheet of concrete. Hannibal leaned the sheet forward and light fell on the rusty rungs of an ancient access ladder.

“Normally I would invite you down first, but I cannot promise the room is safe. I’ll have a look, and let you know when to join me.”

The basement was just as he’d left it. A vast, square room dating back to the colonial period, it was sixty feet to a side, its walls damp, unfinished stone and floor hard-packed dirt. Ten long walnut shelves covered with tools, jars, and supplies nearly filled the room. The air smelled of damp earth, mushrooms, and rusty metal.

He called for Francis and began to move among his things, pleased by their familiar feel. His hands caressed books, vases, toolboxes, tools, and odds and ends. The pads of his fingers lingered on sharp edges, smooth ceramic, and airtight plastic tubs that protected some of his most precious treasures from the damp.

Francis walked by the end of one row of shelves, his attention caught by something.

_I didn't even hear him on the ladder..._

One corner of the basement was dominated by a hospital-sized generator surrounded by gasoline cans. Francis inspected the machinery, his hands probing the vents and belts. 

Hannibal knelt and unscrewed the top of a gasoline can. “These are no good, the gas has gone bad by now.”

“I can get some.”

“Thank you, that would be very helpful. In the meantime, I have plenty of supplies down here, and some meat curing. We can make do with something basic tonight, and go out for more supplies tomorrow. But we must not get into the habit… it will only attract attention.” Hannibal stood, slapping dirt from his hands. “We should work on the house first. I don’t want to turn on the generators until we know every light in the house is switched off. No sense risking it. And I propose that we spend most of our time in the workroom and basement, and only go upstairs when we must, to sleep or shower.”

“If you think so.”

“This will be a good few weeks for us. We need time to plan our next move, to regroup, rest, and prepare.” He tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "I look forward to a hot shower, and sleeping in a bed." 

"Me too." 

 

 

Together, they worked. They broke up the ruined furniture for wood scrap, and boarded up the open windows, painting the panels black so as to keep the repairs hidden. They swept up the broken glass, shattered crockery, and dirt and dust. The thick, well-insulated walls of the house masked the sounds of their work, and more so once they had boarded up the windows. Some serviceable furniture was found - a few chairs, a table, a low chest. The water was indeed on, and all the lights accounted for.

Francis went out for gasoline, a short list of supplies clutched in his gloved hand, while Hannibal prepared dinner. 

Immersed in his task, he found dried mushrooms, cured sausage in wax, a garlic bulb, and some pickled vegetables. Light came from a single candle on the workroom counter beside him. 

_A robust peasant soup will do us good, once we get the generators working. And they left my wine… of course the good crystal is gone, but there are still cups upstairs…_

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway above, along with a rustling, scraping sound. He smelled sticky, heady sap.

_Francis? Or someone else… the sap is similar to the trees around Will’s house… but no, I smell Francis… notes of clean cream, musk, and the mildest hint of neroli… What's he up to?_

Francis appeared on the stairs. The straps of a backpack snaked around his shoulders. One hand clutched a metal tin of gasoline, the other was suspiciously empty. 

_He left whatever it was upstairs._

"I got all the things you asked for." He slung the backpack off and handed it over. 

“Did you make an extra trip?”

Francis dropped his head and eyed Hannibal like a nervous stallion. “It’s… a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises, Francis.”

“I know but… it’s important." He blinked, raising his chin. "Please?”

Hannibal shrugged. “Very well.”

Gasoline applied, the generator was activated and Hannibal made soup. He worked in the workroom with spoons, knives, and other tools he’d scavenged from the kitchen. Dried mushrooms soaked in a bowl of warm water, and the unwrapped sausage lay on a bed of crumpled parchment. He lit the burner on the workroom stove, and heated a pan. 

_He said he had to work on my surprise... I wonder what it could be? A real surprise? A gift? Or something else?_

A heavy step fell behind him. Hannibal was astounded to find himself tense.

 _He can move silently when he wishes... he wanted me to hear him, perhaps out of courtesy?_  

Francis let out a polite cough. “I was wondering…”

Hannibal focused on slicing thin sheets of garlic from the clove rather than look up. His fingers tightened around the knife handle. “Yes?”

“I found one of your suits, ruined. The damp made one leg moldy and I think moths have been at it. Could I have it?”

 _I could launder the suit, a vinegar rinse would-_ He glanced back. "What do you want it for?"

Francis’s tall frame stood before him, his big hands twining together, shoulders slumped as if in supplication.

“Is it part of the surprise?”

A single nod, the expression unchanged.

Hannibal smiled. “Of course. Do whatever you want with it. It’s the dark red and black one, yes?”

"Thank you." Francis hurried away.

Hannibal busied himself with cooking. Hot scents he had been without for months crept into his nose – sharp garlic mellowing as it softened in hot olive oil; salty pork with notes of fennel and parmesan; even the metal of his cooking knives drifted to his flared nostrils.

When the meal was done, he set two bowls on a tray and headed down the hallway. A spill of flickering, golden light lay on the floor before one of the cells. 

 _What's he doing? I smell candles, and sap…_ “Francis?”

“Wait, don’t look yet.”

Hannibal paused. A sharp little smile curled one side of his mouth.  _I wonder what the tabloids would say to know the Chesapeake Ripper was waiting for a Christmas surprise in his own dungeon. And what could I be waiting for, exactly?  I suppose I know... I’ve known from the first that he would be the end of me; how apropos he make me wait._ A thrill ran down his back. 

“Okay!”

Twin ribbons of steam curled from the hot bowls as Hannibal moved forward. He measured his steps down the hallway, and turned into the cell’s open door.

A little tree stood in the cell’s corner. The old plaid suit had been shredded and turned into tiny bows, festooning the tree’s limbs. The black satin lining from the jacket had been ripped out and knotted into garlands. Tiny candles burned on the cell’s shelves, and a few in tall candelabra in the opposite corner. The mattress from Francis's bed lay on the floor, made up with dark  blue satin sheets and warm blankets. The counterpane was turned back in invitation.  Despite the cold of the basement, the cell was warm and inviting.

“Surprise!” The voice was uncertain, and having said it, Francis retreated to the wall, his hands worrying each other.

Hannibal's mouth fell open. “You… put up a Christmas tree?”

Francis gestured at the tree. Without his black gloves, his hands were white and graceful. “I’ve never had one before. I thought, since this is our home now…”

“It’s lovely, Francis. It was a wonderful thing to-“

Francis crossed the room in two long strides. Rough palms caught the hard corners of Hannibal’s shaggy jaw. A hot, eager mouth pressed against his.

Hannibal’s eyes slid closed.

A powerful tongue flicked against his lips like a dragon's tail, then pushed them open. Francis's tongue slipped inside his mouth, filling it with his hot, tangy taste. Within the rough beard, the rippling scar on Francis’s upper lip pressed against Hannibal's mouth, and he welcomed the familiar feel of its gnarls and folds. Hot fingers ran from Hannibal's chest down to his lower belly, where the skin tightened and swelled. 

_I'm going to drop this soup-_

The rough palms disappeared, and the tray was taken from him. The wet heat around his lips disappeared, leaving them cold and empty.

Francis stepped back, his blue eyes gleaming with delight. Clutching the tray, he inclined his head toward the ceiling.

Hannibal looked up. Once again, his jaw dropped in disbelief. 

_Mistletoe._

The amber eyes crinkled at the sprig hanging overhead. He chuckled and indicated the tray. “Perhaps we should eat. And then… we’ll test the hot water.” 

Francis's mouth glistened from the kiss. “You mean do dishes together?” Long bereft of company, he seemed enthralled by the idea. 

Hannibal grinned. “Not exactly.”


End file.
